“You owe,” she said. It was not a question.
“Mistreci Io,” he whispered, the archaic title feeling like broken glass in his throat. mistreci io
“Regret,” he said quietly. “You told me once. Everyone has a door of regret. Yours is just… locked from the outside.” “You owe,” she said
“Yes?”
“The Lock of Lament,” Io said, finally turning. Her gaze fell on the key, and for the first time, something flickered across her face. Hunger. “You stole it from the Sunken Vault.” “Regret,” he said quietly
She turned back to the window, the key glinting in her palm. And somewhere deep in the penthouse, behind a gilded frame and a painted lie, a lock began to tremble.
She closed her hand around the key, then reached out with the other and cupped his jaw. Her thumb traced the scar beneath his eye—a mark from the night he’d first sworn himself to her.